


In the Walls of Our Hearts

by Taelr



Series: Paint [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crushes, Emotional Constipation, First Kiss, Fluff, Frustration, Idiots in Love, M/M, Painting, i don't even know what happened, paint, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2018-02-03 04:20:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1730906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taelr/pseuds/Taelr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek is renovating the Hale House. He makes the mistake of leaving a few cans of paint untouched in one of the large rooms, and when he comes back Stiles is hurling paint at the walls and making a mess of everything. Anger, slamming against a wall, getting booped on the nose by a paintbrush, grinning, covered-in-paint Stiles, angry, snarling, also-covered-in-paint Derek, and a very hot and very sudden makeout session ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Walls of Our Hearts

**Author's Note:**

> This work was inspired by Beethoven's Symphony No. 6 in F Minor, "Pastorale"  
> I heard it the other day and just pictured paint flying through the air in slow motion and this happened.  
> This is the second part of a series, and you can read them in order or out of order or both or just one and they'll still make sense. Or I hope they will, anyways.  
> I was my own beta, so any and all mistakes are mine. Feel free to point out any that you see!

Derek doesn’t hate Stiles. Maybe he hated Stiles back when they’d first met and Scott and Stiles _got Derek arrested and then made him a wanted fugitive,_ but a lot has happened since them. Namely, a lot of near-death experiences and a lot of life saving and a lot of weird pack emotions getting in the way and making it so Derek couldn’t just hate Scott and Stiles anymore. Now Scott was like a brother to him more than ever, but Stiles . . . Well, Stiles was something else altogether. Derek had _tolerated_ him until the alpha pack showed up. That was when Stiles proved to be more helpful and more caring than he’d ever been before, and for the first time since they’d met the word _friend_ echoed in Derek’s head every time he heard Stiles’ name. But that was nothing compared to the nogitsune. They say that fire reveals your true priorities, but a psychotic, homicidal fox demon can do that too, right?

It did for Derek, anyways. One moment, Stiles was just a friend. Just a member of the pack that Derek hadn’t assigned a value to because he wasn’t sure yet and because he’d never been bothered to before. But the next moment Chris Argent was talking about _putting Stiles down_ and suddenly Derek’s eyes were burning with tears and his voice was quavering with emotion and his lip was trembling because he was trying not to cry. What? So Stiles was a pretty intelligent and generally helpful, valuable asset to the pack. To Derek. Great. But the moment Derek was faced with the idea of Stiles dying, of actually gunning down the seventeen year old because of the thing possessing him, well. Suddenly it was like everything came into focus. And everything was Stiles.

Derek wasn’t the alpha anymore, but he and Isaac still had that kind of bond where Isaac would listen to him if Derek told him to do one thing or not to do another. Or maybe that was just their friendship actually developing, because Derek realized that sometimes the roles were reversed and he listened to Isaac, too. At any rate, Scott was the alpha now, and Derek was just a beta. Just one of the betas. It was interesting, how Scott hadn’t bitten anyone but the nogitsune, and yet his pack was made up of people who were, quite possibly, more unswervingly loyal to him than any bitten betas could be. They’d been through some hellish things, but even Derek would die for Scott these days. And that was saying something. At any rate, Derek didn’t have the responsibilities or the stress and concerns of the alpha anymore, which gave him time to focus on other things. Pack was still important to him, but it wasn’t everything. No. Stiles was everything,

And with Kate suddenly returning and everything going to shit even _after_ they finally locked up the evil sonofabitch trickster that hurt Stiles, it just made things come more sharply into focus. So Kate was back, and she was some sort of werecat. They’d deal with it. As it was they were having weekly meetings discussing it and any other inevitable problems they might face in the future. Derek had dreamt of telling Stiles everything, of telling him about Kate being back and showing up and him never waking up, but that was just a dream. And after that he just _knew_ that this thing he had going for Stiles wasn’t going to be the kind of thing that flares up for a while and then goes away. No, this _thing_ was going to stay. And that was terrifying.

It felt like Paige all over again. Except this time Derek was older and it wasn’t his first love and he knew better than to just look through the love-tainted lenses that came naturally. He knew how to remove himself, how to look on as an outsider. He knew how bad for Stiles he would be, so he stayed away. And he got bitter. Because even after the nogitsune Stiles seemed so good and so pure. Stiles seemed to feel like he was darker now, like he’d lost his innocence, but it was still there, glimmering brightly and announcing itself to the world so much more fiercely now because Stiles was desperate to believe that he wasn’t a demon of his own kind after what he’d done. And Derek got scared. Because every time he thought too hard about this thing with Stiles he started to think of Stiles as a younger version of himself, and of himself now as Kate. Because Kate had been older, hadn’t she? And she’d come and taken what she wanted, and Derek had let her, because he was young and naïve and he thought it was love. All Derek could see when he thought too hard about it was himself doing the same thing to Stiles, and in a sick turn of events he imagined himself becoming the woman he hated most in this world. The woman who was, apparently, alive.

So he was bitter and angry, but more than that he was terrified, so terrified, of becoming Kate and doing to Stiles what she had done to him. So he kept his distance. He didn’t change his behavior towards the teen. He ignored the changes and pretended not to notice when Stiles’ lanky teenage form began to fill out into more of a man’s, when Stiles’ boyish round face turned more chiseled and his jawline became more defined, as Stiles’ hair stayed long enough to properly card his fingers through and the muscles that had never been there before suddenly began to make themselves apparent on Stiles’ body. But Derek didn’t touch. He didn’t get close. Hell, he barely even let himself think about it.

He tried to distance himself, not from the pack necessarily, but from Stiles. It was a constant battle between wanting to comfort Stiles after what had happened with the nogitsune and desperately wanting to be as far away from him as possible. And it worked, for a while. The pack was mostly made up of teenagers, and they all had school and lacrosse and homework and teenage lives to keep them busy. Or most of them did. Apparently Stiles was somehow exempt from all of those things because once he discovered that Derek was working on rebuilding and refurnishing the old house he started showing up and just hanging out. And he’d just be there, perched on the edge of a counter or sitting on the stairs or balancing on a stack of boards or leaning against the wall, and he didn’t _do_ anything but talk. He talked to Derek about everything. About small things, at first, unimportant things. Things like school and the weather and the new couple with the baby that had just moved in three doors down from the Stilinskis. But then it got deeper. More personal. The more times Stiles showed up to watch Derek work the less awkward it became and the more Stiles opened up. He started talking about the things Derek knew he _needed_ to talk about, the nightmares and the guilt and the weight on his chest and the memories of screaming and writhing, locked inside his own body while on the outside he didn’t make a sound. Derek knew Stiles needed to talk about those things, so he let him.

He would have asked for help, would have made some physical use of Stiles being there beyond giving Stiles someone to talk to, but he was still afraid. And now that Stiles had been coming so often and talking so much, there was something more between them, some kind of quiet trust. Derek didn’t trust himself around Stiles, though. He didn’t ask for help because he was afraid that an accidental brush of their arms while they carried things or a bump of their hands when Stiles handed him something would be all it took. He was afraid of losing control, of doing something they’d both regret. So he stayed quiet, stayed aloof. And he didn’t ask for help. And Stiles just kept showing up and kept talking.

It was weeks, months, maybe, before Derek _did_ lose control. He had no idea it was coming, was actually feeling like maybe he was learning how to contain this thing he had for Stiles, to tamp it down and cover it up and smother it until it was barely there. But he was wrong.

He could smell the paint before he even stepped up onto the porch, and it made him frown. Because he’d never doubted that Stiles would help if he was asked to, but all Stiles had ever done was just _be there_ and _talk_. And suddenly he was painting? For a moment Derek thought maybe it was another pack member, but then he decided that no one else would ever dare walk right into Derek’s house and start working on it without him. No one but Stiles. His suspicions were confirmed when he stepped inside and caught Stiles’ scent, and noticed his shoes and his phone by the door. Why had he left his phone by the door? Even if he _was_ painting – which he definitely was – it wasn’t so messy that something in his pocket was going to get soaked. Or was it?

Derek walked slowly up the stairs. He didn’t know whether he wanted to sneak up on Stiles to see what he was doing or to just make his presence known already, but it was decided for him when he put his weight on a certain step that creaked beneath him. The sounds – was that paint being dumped or splattered or something? – suddenly stopped, so Stiles must have heard. Derek kept moving. He walked until he reached the empty doorway to his bedroom, and then he just stood there, staring. Because _holy shit_.

Stiles was standing in the middle of the room, dripping paintbrush in hand, with paint spatters and drips and smudges all over him. Derek didn’t know what he felt about that, probably _want_ more than anything else, but it wasn’t the paint on _Stiles_ that held his attention. Oh, no. It was the paint that was everywhere else. On the floor, on the walls, on the ceiling, everywhere. Stiles seemed to have at least had the brains not to use the same brush for the different colors, but those colors were now all over the walls. It looked like Stiles had been hurling paint at the room around him. Derek stared, mouth falling open slightly as he inhaled the overpowering scent of paint and Stiles. And then he lost it.

White-hot fury filled him, because _who did Stiles think he was_? This was Derek’s room, Derek’s house, all that was left of Derek’s old life and also the symbol of Derek’s new life, and Stiles had painted it. Because he’d done it without Derek. In a completely different way than Derek would have wanted to. And because it was Stiles. Stiles, with his pale skin and dark hair and too-long eyelashes and his flailing limbs, who could never shut up and never stand still, who was suddenly standing so perfectly still and silent in the middle of the room. Stiles, who Derek wanted so badly but could never have.

Derek didn’t know what happened. One minute he was standing in the doorway in shock and the next he had pinned Stiles to the wall and had shifted and was yanking Stiles’ shoulder around so that the teen would look at him. Because he was going to _kill_ Stiles. Because not only was Stiles so annoying and desirable and forbidden and out of Derek’s reach, but he had come in and marked _Derek’s_ territory flippantly and as if it was his own. And then Stiles was being sarcastic and _painting_ Derek’s nose, and Derek was so surprised and confused that he just stood there, blinking. “What do you think? Do you like my decorating?” he asked, actually _smiling_.

That stirred something in Derek’s gut, but it wasn’t anger anymore. Maybe it was acceptance of defeat, exhaustion, or just him giving up. He wasn’t really sure, but it also felt like a victory, somehow. Derek realized that he wasn’t in his beta form anymore, but he was still scowling at Stiles. “Stiles,” he said, “This is _my room_. This is _my house_!”

“Well thanks, Captain Obvious. Anything else you’d like to point out?”

Derek thought the anger was rising in him again, and that must have been it because an actual growl ripped its way out of his throat. “You painted it.”

And Stiles was laughing. Laughing. In that manic, I-think-I’m-about-to-die-and-this-is-terrifying-and-I-might-start-crying kind of hysterical way. “Yeah, I guess I kind of did. Sorry about that, by the way.”

Derek stared at him, unable to comprehend. But then he blinked and he felt more confused than anything else, scrunching up his nose at the unfamiliar layer of paint there and the intensity of the smell in his nose when it was so close. “You painted _me_.”

“Yes I did.” And . . . was that . . . a _giggle_? Did Stiles just _giggle_?

Derek sniffed at him, wondering if maybe he was wasted or something, but he found no hint of any kind of foreign substance in or around Stiles’ body. Just Stiles.

And then _Just Stiles_ was saying, “Gray looks good on you,” and he sounded so serious and completely sober that Derek thought he might get whiplash.

What? Derek realized he was still holding Stiles too firmly and loosened his hold, flashing back to the first time he’d ever slammed Stiles against a wall. In Stiles’ room, ironically enough, but that was back when they pretty much hated each other. Somehow, though, even back then, Derek had been distracted momentarily by the curve of Stiles’ lips as he held him there, and now he realized that his eyes had dipped down and he was staring at Stiles’ mouth. He tore his gaze away, forcing himself to look at Stiles’ eyes instead.

“Whew, dude, I thought you were gonna kill me there for a minute.” Stiles’ voice broke through Derek’s thoughts, bring him back to reality and the present. And then Derek felt the wetness through his shirt and looked down to where Stiles had just smudged paint across his chest. And it didn’t matter because Derek had worn this shirt intending to paint in it anyways, but Stiles didn’t seem to realize that because suddenly he was cowering back against the wall and pleading and desperately saying, “Oh my god! I’m so sorry. I didn’t even mean to . . . I . . .” And he just trailed off, looking like he might cry or pee his pants. Probably both.

Derek just looked up, frowning. Not at Stiles so much as at himself. Because the look on Stiles’ face was causing Derek physical pain, and it hurt him to know that he put that expression there, that Stiles was so afraid of him. And that’s when he knew. Knew that he and Stiles are nothing like Kate and him were when he was in high school. Because Stiles is nowhere as naïve as Derek was. Because Derek isn’t an evil bitch. Because Stiles wouldn’t let himself be taken advantage of like that. But more than anything, because Derek’s first priority is Stiles’ safety, and he’d die before he saw Stiles hurt. Derek would never hurt Stiles. Derek was not Kate. He just stood there for a moment, astounded by this realization. Then, slowly, he searched Stiles’ face. “Stiles, why did you paint my room?” His voice was quieter now, genuinely curious. He _had_ to know if this thing he had for Stiles was the kind of thing Stiles could possibly have for him too.

Stiles shrugged, looking like he’d just crashed into a brick wall of guilt and looking like all of the happiness and pride had gone out of him. “Because I came looking for you and you were gone and the paint was just _there_ , and it was your room and I’m kind of really mad at you, so.”

Derek’s frown deepened, but then he quirked an eyebrow, disbelieving and feeling the absurd desire to laugh. “ _You’re_ mad at _me_?” In Derek’s mind it seemed pretty obvious that it should be the other way around. And yet, somehow, it wasn’t that way. Derek wasn’t mad anymore, just intrigued, and Stiles did genuinely seem to be angry about something, even if it was hidden now beneath all of the guilt and regret rolling off of him.

And then Stiles was talking and looking down and _blushing_ and Derek just stared at him because it was all he could do and Stiles was saying, “Well you’re just really annoyingly attractive, okay? And broody and dangerous looking and it shouldn’t be as hot as it is but it really is and you’re kind of way out of my league and OH MY GOD AM I SAYING THIS OUT LOUD I NEED TO SHUT UP NOW.”

Derek flinched when Stiles stared yelling the last part, but he recovered quickly. Stiles had covered his mouth with his hand, and it looked like he was trying to superglue it there with the power of his mind. Derek stared at him, tilting his head to the side and studying for a moment before he reached up and pried Stiles’ fingers away, dropping them as soon as Stiles gave in because there was nothing Derek wanted more then to twine those fingers with his own and he knew he would if he held on a moment longer. “Out of your league?” he heard himself ask. But all he could focus on was Stiles’ mouth, which was slightly open as if in shock or surprise or both, and Derek couldn’t hold onto the last frayed thread of control he had left. And he didn’t even try. He just let it go and let himself lose it, let himself press Stiles up against the wall again and let himself lean forward until their lips were touching and let himself kiss Stiles until neither of them could think straight or stand up properly or breathe evenly.

Derek was the one to pull away, not because he wanted to, but because he was still afraid of hurting Stiles. He shrugged out of Stiles’ hold and turned around, taking three steps towards the door and then making himself stop. He couldn’t bring himself to face Stiles again. Not yet. But then he looked at the walls around him, and he remembered the anger that had coursed through his veins when he slammed Stiles against the wall, and he knew that if it was anyone else, he _would_ have killed them, or at least tried to. He’d lost control, but he didn’t hurt Stiles. And it all made sense now. Because Stiles was his anchor. Because he loved Stiles, and he could never bring himself to hurt Stiles, even when he was so close to the edge and when he’d lost control completely. So he stood there, staring at the room around him and actually smiling to himself because _he’d been wrong_. About himself and about Stiles, and about what would happen if this thing he had for Stiles became an actual thing they had _with_ each other instead of just _for_ each other.

And then Stiles interrupted his thoughts and said, “I’m sorry. I’ll . . . I’ll scrape it all off and help you paint it again or do it all for you, if you want.”

Derek _did_ turn to face him then, surprised and confused. “You don’t like it?”

Stiles stared at him for a few seconds, looking like he didn’t understand. “Um, what? I mean yeah, the splatters and things look pretty cool. But I messed up your walls, so . . .”

Derek didn’t remember making the decision to do it or to say what he did, but suddenly he was shaking his head and cracking a smile. “I don’t want to get rid of it.” He glanced around, nodding to himself as he did. “I like it.”

Stiles looked like his brain might have just short-circuited, and Derek smugly decided to chalk it up to the kiss and the fact that he’d just _complimented_ Stiles. Then he turned around and walked the rest of the way out of the room, no longer feeling like the air was tense between them. “I’m still putting in carpet and covering the floor, and the trim will still be white. But the rest of it’s staying,” he called back over his shoulder as he headed for the stairs. Just before he reached them he lowered his voice. More for himself than for Stiles, he whispered, “You should stay, too.”

And he did.


End file.
